“Got through actin' like a Bedlamite?” she inquired tartly, when he stopped for breath. “If you have you can clear out and let me get to my dish-washin'.”
“I'm through. Oh, by the way, what did Labe say in your letter? I've told you what he wrote me, but I forgot that he wrote you, too.”
Mrs. Ginn looked troubled. “I don't know what to do with that man,” she declared. “I expect any minute to get word that he's been put in the lock-up. If that house of yours ain't rented or sold pretty quick, so he can get to sea again, he will be. Do you know what he's done to that Hungerford critter?”
“DONE to him! What do you mean? He hasn't seen him, has he?”
“No, he ain't seen him, thank goodness, but Labe is so wrought up over what that Hapgood thief told him, about your precious cousin stealin' your telegrams and so on, that he and Hapgood have gone in cahoots to play a trick on Mr. Percy. Labe says Hapgood told him that Percy was keepin' company now with another woman there in Scarford, a young woman with money, of course—he wouldn't chase any other kind. Well, Hapgood—he's a healthy specimen for my husband to be in with, he is—Hapgood knows a lot about Hungerford and his goin's on in the past, and he's got a lot of the Percy man's old letters from other girls. Don't ask ME how he got 'em; stole 'em, I suppose, same as he stole that telegram from John. Anyhow, Labe and Hapgood have sent those letters to the present young woman's pa.”
Daniel whistled. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “That's interestin'.”
“Ain't it, now! Laban says the old commodore—meanin' the pa, I suppose—is a holy terror and sets more store by his daughter than he does by his hopes of salvation, enough sight. Good reason, too, I presume likely; he's toler'ble sure of the daughter. Well, anyhow, the letters are gone and Labe says he's willin' to bet that Cousin Percy'll be GOIN'—out of the window and out of Scarford—when papa gets after him. Nice mess, ain't it!”
Captain Dan whistled again. “Well, Zuba,” he observed, “we can't help it, as I see. What's done's done and chickens do come home to roost, don't they?”
“Humph! I wish my husband would come home and roost where I can keep my eye on him. He says he's gettin' sick of bein' a land lubber. He'll be aboard some ship and off again afore long, that's some comfort. The only time I know that man is safe is when he's a thousand miles from dry land.”